Sapphire Impeded

Comments to imagineer47@yahoo.com

Slam!
Angela awoke to the sound of a gunshot. No, a door slamming. Did she oversleep? Or was mom home early? Unexpectedly bright light seared her eyes. Instinctively her hand went to cover them. She felt a pebble tap her cheek, and something soft brush her naked chest.
What the...?

"Oh, shit, my parents are home!" she heard a male voice whisper. Someone grabbed her elbow and tugged her off the couch. "Ow... not so hard!" she whined, still not fully awake. Why was she sleeping on the couch?
"Quick, this way!" the young man dragging her hissed, pulling her up from a heap of limbs to a walking, or at least staggering, girl. In another room she heard the sounds of a conversation and something heavy being dropped.

Her heart and lungs were cranking from the adrenaline of surprise. Gradually her brain was unraveling where she was and what was happening. She was being dragged through a dining room and down a hallway by a naked young man. He looked familiar. Her skin was cold. She wasn't wearing any clothing! Her arms crossed in front of her, which tugged back on the boy's arm; he turned to see what the problem was; he looked panicked. Something soft brushed up against her chest.

"In here!" he ordered, suddenly pushing her through a doorway into a dark room. "You can get out through the window. Hurry! If they catch you here they'll kill us both!" He pushed her onto a small canopy bed and darted back out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Angela heard wheeled luggage being dragged across a tile floor. "Joshua?" a deep voice bellowed.

Oh, God, she was at her ex-boyfriend's house!
Naked!
Well, not quite naked... two plumes of wispy cloth hung from her neck and were fastened about her wrists. Her wings! She'd come here as Sapphire? Angela's mind raced twin paths, trying both to recall the events that led her here and figure out what to do next. Where's the rest of my clothes? Why did Josh tell me to go out the window? I can't leave naked. I slept with Josh. Who is that I hear running down the hall? Josh was good. No, great. But it was never good with Josh before. I can't believe I slept with him. I can't believe I told him I'm Sapphire. Did I tell him I'm Sapphire? Does he even know it's me? I mean, Angela? Of course he must know, he picked me up. No, he picked up Sapphire. Maybe he doesn't know. It was dark, wasn't it? I can't believe I slept with him. I can't believe I enjoyed it. It was my idea. I begged him to fuck me. Oh my God, I'm a slut. Someone's running down the hall again. What if they catch me here? In his sister's room? Naked? I've got to get out of here. But it's daylight, I can't leave naked. I'll cover myself with the bedspread. No, too big. Too heavy. A towel. No, no towels in here. A robe or something. Gotta find something. The closet.

Angela got up off the bed and stepped to the closet. You don't have time to find something, just go. I can't go naked. Angela's mind flashed back to the times she'd been in Josh's house before. She'd never been in his sister's room; the door was always closed. His sister was older and off at college; this was now a guest room. Good, that bought her time; Josh's parents probably wouldn't come in here. Unless they suspected Josh of being up to something...

"What are you running around for?" Josh's father's voice echoed through the house. "Come help your mother with her suitcase!"

Angela didn't have much time. In her panicked state she didn't remember the details of last night, but if it was anything like the last time there was probably evidence of screwing around in the living room -- for one thing, her panties were unaccounted for -- and it would be discovered any minute now.

The open side of the closet was almost empty, except for a few shoeboxes. Made sense, Josh's sister would have taken her clothes with her. Damn, didn't she leave anything? Just three hangers -- a fleece one-piece pajama, a denim jumper, and a plaid skirt. They all looked small, like Josh's sister might have worn them when she was twelve. She slid the closet door to the other side. This made a surprising amount of noise, ending with a thunk as the door slid off its track. Angela held her breath, listening for a reaction. At first she thought she'd been discovered...

"What's that?" Josh's mom yelled.
"What, mom?"
"Don't 'what, mom' me, young man. Just look at this mess!"
"I- I'm sorry, mom, I was gonna clean the kitchen this afternoon before you got home... I'll take care of it now."
"No, you go clean up the rest of the house first. I'm sure it's a mess too, and I am not prepared to see any more mess. Your father and I will go put our things away; I expect you to be done by the time we're finished."

Angela heard light footsteps down the hall, followed by heavier footsteps. She held her breath, frozen there in front of the closet. All they had to do was open the bedroom door and they'd see Josh's ex-girlfriend, the one they didn't approve of, standing there displaying her charms just like the slut they knew her to be. The footsteps passed the door and continued down the hall; she heard another bedroom door close.

The parents' voices came partially muffled through the heater vent. "Jason, I swear, our son is the laziest..."
"Relax, sweetie..."

Angela's attention returned to the contents of the closet.

Well, this was interesting.

This side of the closet was a mass of straps, ties, ribbons, buttons, clasps, feathers, lace, silk, patent leather, robes, camisoles, bustiers, negligees, teddies... someone had quite a lingerie collection. And, Angela discovered as she rifled through it, not a single practical thing among them. This must be his mom's fantasy closet. Along with what looked like a couple of halloween costumes toward the middle, blocked by the stuck closet door. She tried reaching for a red satin one, maybe a devil's cape, simply because it seemed to be the largest swath of fabric that wasn't see-through in the entire closet -- but this half of the closet was stuffed so tightly she couldn't pull it free. She abandoned it, letting it hang partway out of the tight row of garments.

Above the closet rod were several big boxes -- probably nothing there, and she couldn't really reach them anyway. Down in the bottom of the closet was a shoe tree with a considerable collection of ladies' shoes, none of them practical. This was not looking good.

Angela heard the floor creak; she froze, waiting to identify the threat. Just Josh's parents moving around in their room. Rhythmically, it seemed. It took a few moments for naive Angela to figure out what they were doing... she turned red with embarassment at the realization that they were having sex. Which reminded her of her own actions the night before... she had to get out of there. "Just pick something..."

At least the window shade was drawn, and nobody would be looking in at her while she stood there naked trying on lingerie. On the other hand, there wasn't that much light in the room...

Most of the collection was frills and lace -- not something she could wear walking down the street in broad daylight. Or at night for that matter. Her fingers grabbed at the first substantial-feeling fabric, but this turned out to be an exotic collection of buckles and zippers in patent leather that she couldn't figure out; she dropped it on the floor and continued exploring.

Her hands work down between each hanger, inspecting garments by feel. They find a satin camisole, but she breaks a strap trying to get it off the hanger. Could her luck get any worse?

Paydirt. A bustier with a satin front. Angela carefully worked it out partway so she could see it. The sides and back were stretch mesh, with little eyehooks hidden behind decorative satin ties up the front. It was strapless, but there was no frilly trim -- she could get away with wearing it outside as a top. It was certainly better than anything else she'd found. She carefully worked it out of the closet.

What to do about her bottom half? She worked through the rest of the closet with growing anxiety. "Doesn't this woman own a skirt?" "Of course, but they're in her regular closet, silly." Angela finally found one -- all lace. She might as well be naked.

Desperate, she squeezed her arm through the gap between the stuck closet door and the other side of the closet, fishing for the sister's skirt. She would have to make it work somehow. Let's hope she was chunky when she was young...

The plaid skirt was all dark blues and greens, pleated uniform-style. Maybe it was the stress of the situation, but it seemed alarmingly short for a school uniform. Angela had no way of knowing this didn't belong to Josh's sister, but was actually one of his mom's "special" items.

Angela started with the top. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the tiny hooks in the front of the bustier. As she got it free of the hanger something fluttered to the ground. Matching panties. Well, not all of her luck was bad. Still uncomfortable with her nakedness, she put down the bustier and stepped into the panties, quickly sliding them up her slender legs. The satin tie sides rode high on her hips. The front satin panel seemed awfully small; the gusset and rear were sheer nylon. "These weren't meant to be practical," she reminded herself, "but they're better than nothing."

She went back to work on the bustier, getting the last hook undone and wrapping it around her. "Wow, Josh's mom's even smaller than I am." Even with the stretchy sides and back it was a challenge to get the bustier closed. The tiny hooks were on the ends of short satin ribbons; this exposed a strip of bare skin between the two satin halves of the bustier. More risque than she'd like, but it didn't seem too bad. Her fingers struggled with the hooks for what seemed like an eternity. As she worked frantically she heard the pace of Josh's parents getting equally frantic; she had to hurry! No time to redo the satin ties, which were just for decoration anyway. Angela noticed garter straps dangling from the bottom of the garment but didn't have time to do anything about them; they would just have to dangle.

Next came the skirt. As she bent over she felt the bustier tighten around her. Angela shimmied the skirt up her legs. She had quite a time getting it up over her flaring hips; Josh's mom really was petite. It closed up with four tiny plastic snaps in back; a zipper would have been easier. She wished she could check herself in a mirror, but the two closet doors were stuck together and the mirror was on the back one. Looking down the skirt seemed short but not embarassingly so; she could just see her knees. But the pleats seemed flared more than she'd expect, and unusually stiff; maybe it had just been starched. Poor Angela didn't know just how special this skirt was. Josh's mom had spent weeks working on it, giving it trick characteristics that wouldn't be found in any real schoolgirl's skirt.

Angela went to the closet for some shoes; she couldn't walk all the way home, over a mile, barefoot. Besides being uncomfortable for her tender soles, it might attract attention. Little did she know how much attention her outfit would attract.

As she bent over the extensive collection of high heels on her hands and knees, she heard a creaking hinge behind her; she spun her head around in horror.

It was Josh. He just stood there for a moment, staring at her like an idiot.

"What?" Angela whispered.

Josh could hardly be blamed for staring. There before him was an erotic vision straight out of his roster of recurring fantasies. He grew into puberty on this fantasy, ever since he caught his sister in her school uniform in a similar position, hiding her pot stash under a loose floorboard in the closet. But this was far better. His sister had never looked that hot in her uniform. (Josh had no idea the skirt that had been hanging in the closet wasn't his sister's old uniform skirt.) Bent over this way, the skirt was so short it wouldn't have covered half of the girl's delicious rump even if the pleats weren't stiff enough to stick out instead of following those perfect curves. And the panties were so sheer and drawn so taught over those twin bubbles of flesh she might as well have not worn anything. All her weight was forward on her knees, the toes of her cute feet pointed and hovering above the floor like a ballerina caught mid-leap. Whatever top she'd found was as sheer in back as those weird open sleeve things she was still wearing from the night before. The tiara perched in her tousled hair was the crowning touch. Damn, she was even hotter than last night. She reminded him a lot of his ex, Angela. Except that Angela was a prude, with short curly hair.

"Aren't you done yet?" Josh finally spoke before Angela really understood the cause of his hesitation. "You've gotta get out of here."
"I've gotta find a pair of shoes I can wear." Sounded like Angela too.
"Angela?"
"WHAT??" she almost yelled. They both froze, listening for signs they'd been heard. Amazingly, Josh's old man could still be heard hammering away, the steady thumping of the bedpost against the wall marking his time.

It *was* Angela. Man, she'd sure changed! He definitely had to hook up with her again. Could his luck get any better?

"You don't have time. My parents will be done any second, and my mom's not the type to cuddle if you know what I mean."
Angela didn't really care; she just wanted to get away from this humiliating situation as quickly as possible.

Josh crossed the room, throwing open the window shade. "Come on, hurry!"
"But..."
Josh looked down at her; she looked up at him pleadingly from her position on hands and knees. It was hard to do anything but grab her and nail her on the spot.

Josh reached down, grabbing a pair of heels in one hand and her shoulder in the other, pulling both upright. "Here, these will have to do," he said as he turned to the window, sliding it open and tossing the shoes out. They clattered loudly on the brick outside. It occurred to Angela that Josh must use this window as a frequent means of escape if the screen's already off. Josh motioned out the window with one hand, and reached for hers with the other. "Out you go; we can play more later."

Angela shot him a look -- there would be no more playing with him. She gingerly stepped out the window onto a strategically-placed box, feeling Josh's hand on her rump "steadying" her, and then stepped down to the brick. The window closed and latched behind her and the window shade was drawn. Well, no going back now.

Angela squinted through the sudden brightness of daylight and picked up the shoes, feeling the bustier constrict around her as she bent over. She sat down on the wooden box-step to slip them on.

Josh's choice sucked. Two black satin-finished straps with little buckles, one over the toes and one that came up the back and wrapped around the ankle, attached to a clear plastic one-inch platform with a six-inch heel. More complicated little fasteners for her nervous fingers to struggle with. If only she'd kept her nails shorter.

Angela stood up and smoothed herself out, nervously checking her outfit for any adjustment that would make it less revealing. It was a hopeless task. Fortunately (!) for Angela she couldn't see herself in the mirror and didn't realize just how outrageous the outfit was. The sides and back of the bustier were quite translucent in the light of day, and the satin front a lot narrower than it had seemed when she took it off the hanger, each half just three inches wide. The outer curve of her breast was clearly visible beneath the gauzy material, and the inner curve peeked out the gap between the hooked ribbons that held the two halves of the bustier.

The skirt, too, showed more than she realized. She'd thought the pleats of the cheerleader-style skirt were all made of the same opaque plaid tartan, a thick wool blend that lent it stiffness. In fact, only the center part of the pleats, the ones that joined to form the waistband, were opaque, and the stiffness came from plastic inserts that ran the length of the pleat to the waist. The material that joined the center pleats was just as sheer as the material on the bustier, but dyed the same dark blue as the dominant color in the tartan. The observant voyeur could see the shadows of her thighs right through the skirt. But this wasn't the only trick the skirt had in store.

Angela noticed the waistband seemed puffy despite being extremely tight; what she didn't notice was the way the skirt flared out if she squeezed the waistband flat. Josh's mom had sewn into the pleats plastic slats with a lever at the upper end. This allowed the skirt to be decent if risque most of the time, but flare up to expose the wearer on demand, either partway with a hand on the hip, or all around like a naughty maid's uniform or a ballerina's tutu by tightening a belt or sash. It was an expensive trick she'd yet to show off to her husband on one of their exhibitionist romps. If she knew that her son's "slutty" ex-girlfriend would be the first to use it, she would be furious. After all, it was her own private triumph. For Angela, it was just an embarassment waiting to happen.

Unaware of the extent of her exposure, Angela started out for home. She went three whole blocks before seeing anyone, and those were just young children playing superheroes in the yard, too wrapped up in themselves (and their oversized blanket-capes) to pay her any attention.

"Maybe this won't be so bad," she thought hopefully. She didn't see the housewives and mothers peeking out their living room windows and tut-tutting the shameless young tart parading through their conservative upper-middle-class neighborhood. Their teenage daughters would never!

It was when she began walking the last block toward Alvarez Boulevard that she ran into her first bit of trouble. She looked down the gentle slope to the corner and saw two rough-looking girls about her age. Matching studded leather jackets, big clunky boots and ripped jeans, the similarity of their outfits contrasted with the dramatic differences in build. The one with orange spiked hair was small and wiry; the one with a bleached buzzcut looked like she ate her enemies, and had had a lot of enemies. Tall and impossibly wide, with deflated basketball breasts, her jeans looked like a canvas mat from behind. They weren't moving. Maybe waiting for the bus. She didn't want to run into these two at all, but absolutely not when she was dressed like this. They'd eat her alive. The fat one, maybe literally.

She'd have to cut through the park.

The city library was on the corner of Skyler and Alvarez, in the middle of a sprawling, hilly park with a narrow meandering lake running through it. Early mornings and late afternoons joggers would use the paved running paths and exercise bars sprinkled along the way, but during the day it was pretty much deserted. In a stroke of civic brilliance the planners neglected to install any children's play equipment, the fear of injury lawsuits having dried up any such enthusiasms. (They still couldn't figure out why so few children came to the library.) But as so often happens with such projects, the lawsuit-fearing no-play-equipment left hand not only let the right hand install equally-deadly but fun-free exercise bars and ramps (courtesy of a Presidential Fitness Commission grant) but paved the walk with a glassy-smooth cement tinted blue. A councilwoman had lobbied the landscapers to make the walk look like either marble or a mountain stream (her story changed every time the sore subject came up) and a cost-slashing move at the last minute had changed the expensive blue rubber aggregate to less-expensive homogeneous material that dried with an almost friction-free surface. It was fine with running shoes when it was dry; with any other shoes or whenever it was wet it became quite treacherous.

With her first step onto the meandering path Angela knew she was in trouble. The clear plastic platform sole skidded forward slightly before stopping on a pebble; Angela's arms jerked up a bit as if to grab balance out of the air. She stopped and looked back down the hill, reconsidering her options. Both sides of the path were lined with sloping loose piles of large smooth riverbed stones that even a mountain-goat would break an ankle on. It was the path or the girls. The fat girl started to turn around; panicked, Angela hurriedly hobbled down the path out of sight. After just a few more steps, she stopped again. This wasn't going to work; she'd almost fallen twice. She squatted down to remove the impossible heels.

But Angela couldn't get the buckles undone! Squatting as she was she couldn't really see what she was doing, and her nails kept getting in the way of getting a good feel for it. How had she managed to buckle them in the first place?

Only partly on purpose, she sat back on her butt with a thump, the short skirt naturally (!) flipping out. Her butt stung for a moment. She bent both legs to one side, shifting her weight back on her butt and reaching for the outside of her right ankle. Her sheer-backed panties acted as a lubricant, sliding her around a bit as she struggled, gradually hiking up and gathering between her cheeks. "Ow," she said as she slid her way onto a sharp pebble, but she wasn't about to give up on the consternating buckle. Wiggling about in her struggles she worked herself back and forth over the tiny jagged chip of lost granite. While her soft flesh absorbed the sharp intrusion without injury, it sawed at the thin fibers of her tightly-stretched sheer panties, poking a hole which grew into a run.

"Dammit!" she exclaimed in frustration. The more she tried, the more her hands shook from frustration and fear of discovery, sprawled out in the park. She finally gave up.

She considered crawling, but that was just too pathetic, too humiliating, a point hammered home by a soft breeze that she felt go up her skirt. Her ass would be on display for anyone who walked by. No, she would walk.

It was like tiptoeing on ice. The lucite platform sandals wiggled and shifted about for traction with every tiny step, hobbling her progress through the park. Her upper body occasionally lurched about in small increments, her arms jerking up this way and that, a cross between a short-circuited robot and hip-hop dance moves. Her breasts jiggled and shifted against the confines of the bustier, which made its too-tight fit felt with every move. The hem of her skirt danced about as her hips wiggled in exaggerated fashion with every mincing step in the too-tall heels. The topmost waist snap, a cheap plastic part hurriedly sewn in, took leave of its retaining threads; the waistband expanded slightly, slipping down an inch toward Angela's hips and inching the pleats outward, the change unnoticed by the poor girl so focused on simply staying upright.

Angela didn't realize it, but the path she'd chosen would have been impossible without the Sapphire force. Partially recharged in the darkness of Josh's living room, the two gems she had about her wrists, focused by the tiara still perched above her long dark bangs, acted as invisible walking sticks being flailed about in her hands, bouncing off the ground and nearby trees and other objects along the path, occasionally supplementing her balance and barely keeping her upright. But their force was too randomly directed, and with just two stones remaining their forcefield power too faint for her to recognize as she concentrated on every hesitant action and reaction.

Her progress looked like a Benny Hill skit in slow motion.

He almost didn't see her, lost in thought as he made his way up the path.
"With a Jackie Chan, a Brat Pitt, and a Pokemon movie all opening the same weekend, the library'll be even more dead than usual, so I should be able to get in and out without any trouble."
The click-scratch-sliding of Angela's heels finally broke through his criminal meditations; he looked up.
"Woah." He stopped and stared at the vision ahead of him.

A girl no more than 18, strutting down the slick cement pathway in what had to be a stripper's outfit -- tall clear plastic spike heel sandals, scandalously-short flouncy skirt with alternating strips of solid and translucent material, a strapless sheer (from behind anyway) bustier, some kind of harem-girl sleeves, her dark straight hair dancing across her bare shoulders in time with her skirt's bouncing peeks at her delicious ass. She appeared to be having trouble walking, neither her shoes nor the pavement being particularly well-suited to the task.

Well, this was an unexpected bonus. He'd planned on hanging out at the junior college across town -- the girl he'd hooked up with there last month never contacted the authorities, so he figured it was still safe pickings -- but if this one panned out, he wouldn't have to make the trip.

Angela's borrowed lucite platform came down mercilessly on an errant snail, the poor gastropod's wet gelatinous body serving as an efficient lubricating film. Her foot slid out from under her, launching her into a pendulous series of desperate attempts to regain her balance. Just as she was about to lose the fight with gravity and face-plant she leaned over and reached out to pull herself toward a waist-high exercise bar. This stopped her from kissing concrete, but the pelvic gyrations required to straighten back up popped another of the flimsy plastic snaps holding the waistband of the skirt together. "Oh!" she exclaimed in surprise as the skirt slid lower on one hip, exposing the string tie side of her skimpy panties. The pleats levered out a bit more from the constriction of the outer waistband fabric, the skirt now ratcheted out at a 45-degree angle.

The voyeur licked his lips unconciously as he saw her cheeks exposed. He noticed the tear on one side of her panties; the lump in his pants spasmed its approval.

This was not a young woman out for a walk. This was a professional tease practicing her craft. Though he wondered why she was here in the park before lunch -- not exactly a target-rich environment. But maybe that was just it -- she was working out her tease here, rehearsing for a later show, maybe a dinner show at the mall. He knew their teasing wasn't accidental, but he'd never caught one working out her routine before.

Angela stopped her shuffling; her backside sure felt breezy... she twisted around to look down...

"What the...?" It was sticking almost straight out in all directions. And it was too short to begin with! Angela's hands shot back, pressing the skirt down to cover her butt. The front of the skirt just lifted higher in response. One hand shot to the front; the sides poked up higher. She tried to use her forearms to push down as much of the skirt as she could; the strain on the waistband caused the last of the plastic snaps to pop free of their threads, and the skirt dropped low on her hips; the peaks of her pelvis were visible above the waist of the skirt, as were the side ties and part of the sheer back of her insubstantial underwear. What kind of twisted Catholic school did Josh's sister go to? The skirt had somehow turned into some cheesy imitation of a ballerina costume. Or maybe a dirty French Maid's uniform. Her cheeks burned hot with embarassment, even though there was no one around to see. Her head spun this way and that and her eyes darted about, making sure the coast was clear; she didn't notice the figure in the shadows of the cypress trees behind her.

She finally made it to the library, a low Frank Lloyd Wright inspired building nestled halfway along the path. The path forked at the entrance, one side going up into the lobby, the other sloping down to the left. The library was built with a large glass reading room built in a half-circle looking down on a sheltered fern garden. The path actually went under the building and out through the fern garden before winding the rest of the way diagonally across the park to come out on Alvarez Boulevard.

Angela felt sticky and tired. Her stomach and back muscles ached from the exertion of tossing about her upper body in search of dynamic balance. Her throat was parched. She needed to get a drink and freshen up. She tottered into the library, feeling the cool rush of air conditioning blowing through the doorway.

She spent several seconds in front of the water fountain, figuring out the best way to get to the water. She felt the bustier tighten up mercilessly as she bent her head down; a stitch popped loudly in the cold silent foyer and she straightened back up. She could ill afford to have her top come exploding off. Bent over at the waist? She kept her upper body stiff as she bent over. She felt the skirt take leave of her ass as she attempted this and straightened back up. Bend at the knees, she told herself. But this fountain was so low she had to splay her legs obscenely. It'll look like I'm humping it. She turned to one side and bent down slowly, knees together, then twisted her upper body very slowly, listening and feeling for more signs of stress in the overstuffed bustier. Her mouth finally reached the tantalizing faucet and she pressed the button.

Ice-cold water hit her face like a liquid hammer. She jerked back from the icy assault, arching her back and throwing her off-balance. She tried to straighten up but this only threw her center of gravity back further. Her free arm pinwheeled frantically as her other hand gripped the faucet, the muscles in her arm flexing to keep her upright.

With one side tethered to the faucet and the other freewheeling in empty space she twisted inexorably away from the fountain. As her body contined backwards, she shifted her weight off her right foot, hoping to pull it back under her. This both accelerated her twisting fall and suddenly gave up the traction that shoe had on the tile floor. Her right leg shot out suddenly, kicking up as she landed hard on her ass. The weight now off her left foot, it too lost traction and skidded out, but the stiletto heel caught momentarily on the grout between two tiles. The unexpected loss and regaining of leverage caused her to push herself back further. Her right hand finally found the floor with a loud smack and stopped her short of landing flat on her back.

With her back fully arched, her shoulders locked back, and her torso twisted, the strain of her breasts against the bustier was incredible. It creaked for an instant, finding its own weakest link, then the top two hooks let go at the same instant with an audible Pop!

Angela gasped in horror as she felt the top part of the overtaxed garment loosen suddenly, her titflesh quivering as it settled into the wider gap. In shock she released her grip on the faucet and crumpled to the floor.

Dirtbag stood just outside the library, peering through the glass to one side of the double doors. God damn she was fuckable. And she was coming apart right before his eyes. So helpless-looking, sprawled out on the tile floor, perfect legs splayed obscenely, showing off that sweet-looking little satin triangle between them like a virgin slut. Her fleshy mounds were busting out of her loosened top, with two hooks down and two to go. Her erect nipples just peeked over the top corners of the inadequate garment. His desert-camouflage pants could barely contain his excitement. She knew how to play the game!

Somehow, Angela managed to get up. Leaning her back against the wall she set to work on her traitorous top.
"Dammit, the hooks are busted!" she said, embarassed mid-sentence at the loudness of her voice in the echoing silence of the library. Good thing it had ties as well as hooks; she just hoped they were up to the task of keeping her together.

She tied them off as best she could given her nervousness at the spectacle she'd just made of herself. Next Angela hiked up the skirt, but it settled back down, coming just shy of sliding off her hips. "Oh, this is just too rich," she sighed in resignation. She adjusted the flimsy panties for maximum coverage, pulling them out of their nestling-place to cover her ass. The undiscovered rip across one cheek grew slightly as she tugged, the fabric parting to show soft bare flesh.

The voyeur adjusted his hardon before backing away out of sight.

Angela paused at the door. Her eye caught the flyer on the bulletin board.
"WANTED for robbery and sexual assault," she read aloud.
The police sketch looked menacing, unkempt, intimidating.
Three small store robberies, and four assaults.
"Yeah, that's a good way to get people to go to the library -- put up pictures like that. Little kids get one look at this mug and they'll never want to come back, Harry Potter storytime or no Harry Potter storytime."

The outside air was warmer than the air-conditioned sterility of the library, but the random breezes whirling about the building as she descended the path under and through the library gave her a chill nonetheless. She tried not to think about how... exposed she was.

"Gimme the money in the till."
"Huh?" The pizza-face behind the counter gulped as he turned around to find a knife next to his jugular; in an instant a large sweaty palm gripped the hair on the back of his head. The knife pressed into his skin momentarily. The dirtbag holding it flashed a look -- "that's a warning, I *will* jump the counter and gut you if you fuck me" -- which pizza-face understood implicitly as dirtbag let go of him.

Shit. If he'd known he was going to get held up at the *library*, he would have kept the job at the Quick Mart -- at least it paid better. And there weren't any sixty-year-old ruler-wielding psychos looking over your shoulder all the time.

"The till. The cash box. Give it here."
"Oh! Yeah. Sorry. Here." He seemed unafraid now that he understood the request.
Dirtbag was handed a canvas deposit sack.
"Thanks. You're not going to press any alarm button, are you?"
Pizza-face shook his head. "Alarm button? This is the library, dude."
"I know that! One more thing," the robber said when he spied the security monitors behind the counter, "give me the lobby tape."
Pizza-face turned around and pressed eject. "Man, you're good," thinking the tape confiscation was to eliminate any evidence.
"Just want something to remember her by," the knife-toting man smiled, dropping the tape into the canvas bag.

The path took Angela down under the wing of the library and through an atrium-like area sheltered by the building on two sides. Fern-covered slopes reached up from either side of the path to glass walls; library patrons could take a chair in the climate-controlled reading areas and look out upon the placid-looking fern garden. The view today was much improved as Angela tottered through. The path formed a natural wind tunnel, the breeze taking a nasty edge and blowing the poor girl's skirt up. Three times she stopped her unsteady progress to push her skirt down, and three times it was immediately flipped back up by the cool shady air; Angela finally gave up and sutter-stepped through the ferns as quickly as she could manage. As she jiggled, the top knot of her tied-together bustier began to unravel, revealing more and more of her delicious cleavage...

Finally back out into the sunlight on the other side, she welcomed the skin-warming rays. The path split again here. To the left, a stairway leading down to the corner of Alvarez, where the two tough girls had been. To the right, the path continued meandering down the hill to the other corner of the park. Not wanting to be seen by anyone in her humiliating fantasy costume, Angela set off down the slippery slope.

And unbeknownst to her, a grinning pervert followed her, knife in one hand, money sack and handcuffs in the other, eyes bouncing side to side in rhythm with his next victim's swinging hips.